Author: Daniel Sullivan

IRON EYES CODY found his place,
safe among the human race,
I see dots on a biology chart,
you tell me about the ancient cart.

Your canoe swims far and wide,
with prideful screams for WOUNDED KNEE,
I can't find my CELTIC DREAMS,
lost in the seams,
to ENGLISH SLAUGHTER,
and you get hotter dancing with wolves,
and I am left wondering,
slumbering,
lost to history.

You have stories and songs,
your homes are full of blood dried past,
and at last you speak your tome,
all alone,
I am left with,
"where are my roots?"

Your museum of steel and bright,
the light shines on a myriad of books,
looks,
the authors fight to be seen,
known,
for history's LOST ONES,
but I'm still in the shadows,
waiting,
wondering,
"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK HAPPENED TO MY ROOTS?"

I call it quits,
kaput.

At 18 they said go away,
"we'll keep an eye on things,
till you return one day",
I come back after a few years,
houses sold,
rust and mold,
strangers stand instead of friends,
land disgraced,
an empty global nothing place,
a home lost to outer space,
but at least the ONE TRUE RACE abides,
my roots buried under landslides.

White trash and the landfill,
spilled memories,
POP CULTURE and spiritual diabetes,
in my Mercedes,
racing for the stars,
devouring cocaine,
driving insane,
from nowhere,
to nowhere.

Roots severed.

World empty.

But I'm so fucking happy for your Iron Eyes Cody.

For your Chief Seattle.

For your casinos.

I just want to find my fucking roots.

Today feels like "Monday".
Tuesday felt like tomorrow.
Tomorrow, comes yesterday.

In the morrow,
the day-break realm,
in that world I will find
my forgotten tomorrows.

In a world of perpetual farce.

The charnal house of history.

Alone,
but still standing.

Broken,
and still together.

Afraid,
but not consumed by fear.

Brothers and sisters,
in green,
and loam,
and black,
and gold.

We are all different,
but we remember the promise.

You stand with others,
and are surrounded by guns, 
wire,
pain,
sadness,
regret,
questions.

Your captors torment,
vile,
piercing eyes of hate.

Their hate came from somewhere,
but not from you.

We just want you home,
brothers and sisters.

We want you back,
with family,
love,
and peace.

We just want the wars to end.

Tempest spray,
worn sails,
genoa forgotten,
and my love lost.

But the sea remembers,
gently,
that boastful act.

With Irons fore,
aft are the sins of youth,
terror felt in failure,
as the jib gave way.

Uncontrolled jibe,
spinning,
the boat knows its way.

Uncontrolled,
bailing,
the boat will go to rest.

Somewhere kept for courage,
in cold vaults,
manifold dreams.